Page 172 of Mangled Memory
He turns me to him. I’m still wary but too tired to fight it. “I’m curious if it’s the same now. But I’ll tell you after you check out the house.” He leans in, and I stiffen, only to have him drop a kiss on my forehead and turn and walk back to the great room.
I look out over the lawn. This is prime real estate. Unless something changed drastically during the gap in my brain, the money this place takes to maintain—not to buy or to gut and remodel, but just maintain—is well beyond my comfort level. I grew up with money, but not Cherry Hills Village money.
This is John Elway money.
Or the guy who founded major league soccer money.
Or … Christian Barone money. Whoa!
I sit on the chaise outside and lift my face to the early afternoon sun. It’s warm and bright and cuts through the brisk fall afternoon to soothe the chill that accompanies me everywhere now.
In all the dreams of my life, I never could’ve envisioned Cherry Hills Village or a “patch” of grass like this in this zip code.
In all my nightmares, I’d never have considered it means living here with a man I don’t know and cannot trust.
There are things that terrify me. Snakes for one. Those weird glass elevators that look like they float. Nefarious people for another. But right up there is being at someone else’s mercy.
No agency.
Under someone else’s control.
Stuck.
The idea that my life is not my own and that I can’t change it is unthinkable. And it has not-so-subtly reared its head to stare me in the face.
I have no cell phone. I’m guessing I have a car and credit cards, but I’ve yet to see any of it. Not a key, not a purse, no identification. Zero.
Am I a prisoner in this house I don’t know? What happens if I want to walk out the front door to get some fresh air? Will I be hauled back? Or will I even be allowed to leave in the first place?
Well,allowedis the all-wrong word.
My life.My body.My choice.
If I want to leave, I damn well will. I’ll just have to figure out where I want to go and how I plan to get there.
As these thoughts assault me, I recognize two things. The first is the overwhelm, the oppressive size of the problem, how very bad this situation is, and how scared I should be. I can taste the despair on the tip of my tongue.
The second is how physically tired the whole thing makes me. Call it healing. Call it fatigue. But the emotional and physical exhaustion has just caught up with my head.
And I want to check out. Not officially or permanently, but a good nap—an escape from this crap—sounds perfect.
I have to say, finally escaping a hospital bed only to volunteer to climb into a different one makes me disappointed in myself. Pile that onto the emotions that swamp me, and I have the perfect shit sandwich.
I could sleep right here but that feels too vulnerable. Not that I think anyone could waltz onto this lawn, but I am exposed.
I stand and stretch my limbs before wandering back toward the house on the stone terrace.
Christian’s voice carries from the dark paneled door that’s hidden off the sitting room.
“Get with Corinne. Tonight is gnocchi and lamb, with her roasted cabbage, salad, and soda bread. And Ayla’s favorite apple cake. Nothing says welcome home like her favorites.”
Nothing says trying too hard like controlling what I eat.The response is on the tip of my tongue when another deeper voice speaks. It parrots the menu with no response, answers a few questions, and offers no more. “She’ll have it ready for seven.”
“I need you here tonight.”
“Visible or less so?”
What the fuck?
